


Soul Mark

by Misericordemika



Category: Green Lantern (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics), The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Halbarry - Freeform, M/M, Soulmates, SuperBat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misericordemika/pseuds/Misericordemika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Every person is born with the name of their soul mate on their ring finger. A translation of Inori's original work (with permission).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Halbarry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inori/gifts).
  * Inspired by [灵魂伴侣系列](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159710) by [Inori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inori/pseuds/Inori). 



Hal is about eight years old when he could finally read his soul mark.

Humans are born with a name on their left ring finger - the name of their only soulmate in the entire universe. This mark will direct them into finding that special person, for they both are branded with the same colour and script, as perfectly intertwined as their own souls. On average, children will be able to see the names of their special ones by the time they are four years old, at which their parents will gift them with silver rings to hide this biggest secret from prying eyes.

When they grow up, and having found each other, they will exchange the silver for gold, for an eternal pledge that will forever bind them together, never to part again.

Until he turns eight, the name on Hal’s finger has been blurry and unreadable, for it is abnormally long. The only thing he could make out is the colour - a series of beautiful golden-brown letters unlike any other. His mother once told him, it must be because his soulmate has a similarly beautiful soul for it to leave such a branding claim on Hal’s finger.

 _Bartholomew_ , Hal stares at the soul mark, making out each syllable with slight difficulty. Disappointment swamps him.

Who the hell is going to have such a strange name?

Amongst seven billion - or more optimistically - at least two billion people who use the Latin alphabet, a Bartholomew is as difficult to find as a needle in a haystack. Hal has serious doubts about who besides that stone statue of that Church saint would be called such an awkward name.

* * *

 

At fourteen, the first pair of soulmates appeared in Hal’s life. His two classmates, swept by the wistful glances of their peers, took off their silver rings together; they chattered about their future, two souls joining as one while everyone around them faded into the background, their happiness infecting all that were within vicinity. Hal watched with a twinge of jealousy, trying to imagine the kind of happiness reserved only for that perfect merge between two perfect souls.

He still hasn’t met a single Bartholomew; but he is determined to find them.

* * *

 

As a pilot he’s been to many places, from uninhabitable deserts to sleepless cities; he’s met many people, among them his best friend and one who makes his heart flutter. But not a single one is called Bartholomew, as if his soulmate were avoiding him on purpose.

He stares at the name on his finger, disillusionment mounting.

Joining the Justice League made things easier. There is their alien leader who has no soul mark of any sort, their Amazonian princess who has lost her soulmate a long time ago, her mark faded to an unreadable scar. There is also Cyborg, who lost his entire left arm along with his soul mark in that accident. Batman, of course, never engages in what he calls “frivolous” conversations, but rumour has it that his soul mark is a string of letters from a completely unknown language, so mysterious that even the world’s greatest detective is stumped.

This gives Hal some comfort, for at least he could still read his soulmate’s name; at least his soulmate is still alive; at least Earth is such a small place compared to the entire universe.

One day, he will find his Bartholomew.

* * *

 

He sees them kissing, the two co-leaders of Justice league. They engulf each other with their heat and need, and when they finally part due to lack of air, Batman crudely grabs Superman’s hair and yanks him down. “No mark, _hm_?” A low and dangerous growl.

“You didn’t tell me your real name either, so I guess we are even?” Superman presses batman’s gloved hand over his heart, where the name “Bruce” is carved onto his skin in a rigid and dark-blue script.

They press together once more.

Hal turns around, unable to suppress the pain that slivered his heart.

Those two are the world’s finest, in each they trusted the most - how could they possibly have anyone else’s name? How could they _not_ be soulmates?

His Bartholomew is still nowhere to be found.

That night he drags the Flash to the bar under some pathetic pretence. He orders with the intention of drowning himself in liquor. Barry worriedly watches over him, putting a patient stop to his antics before he could poison himself.

“Bar, I am never going to find my soulmate,” he mumbles to his best friend.

Barry gives him a comforting pat, as if soothing some giant dog. “You will - after all, you are the greatest Green Lantern, right?” His blue eyes are sad, as if sympathizing with his pain.

 _Barry is such a good person_ , Hal thinks, mind still foggy. _If only his name were Bartholomew._

_If only he were my soulmate._

* * *

 

Few more years pass, and finally Hal decides to throw that soul mark crap behind him and drags to bed the colleague he has been in love with for many years. As he strips Barry down to nothing, he catches the familiar flash of colour on Barry’s finger.

It is an ordinary name, for an average person will probably meet dozens of “Harold”s during their lifetime.

But what made Hal’s heart leap is the colour - the golden-brown that reminds of autumn fields - the colour that is identical to the brand on his own body.

“Barry, what is your full name?” His voice shakes, fear and nervousness corroding his will.

“I thought you knew a long time ago….” Barry seems to read the message between Hal’s gritted teeth. “Bartholomew Henry Allen.”

“ _All these years_ and you never told me that “Barry” _isn’t_ your full name?!” Hal grabs his silver ring and throws it across the room. It clatters to the floor with a silvery clink, forgotten.

Barry stares at his name on Hal’s finger, a mix of awe and surprise on his face.

Delight floods them both, and for a moment they forget where to even put their hands.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Barry reverently rubs his name, branded onto Hal's finger. “I didn’t even know….”

“Yeah, after all these years, I never even knew that… _it really is you_ ,” Hal whispers against Barry’s lips, dragging them both into the abyss of primal need.

They grip each other tight as they kiss, grinding naked bodies together in flares of passion. It has been too long for him to finally hold his soul mate, to feel the greatest happiness in life as both their bodies and souls merge at their synchronized release.

“After all these years, you never thought of asking me if I might be the one?” Barry asks, head on Hal’s shoulder.

Hal runs his fingers through Barry’s golden hair, his entire body emanating a sense of calm and satisfaction. “How am I supposed to know that someone would actually have such a weird name… _ow!_ Why did you hit me?!”

“Shut up, genius.”


	2. Superbat

Bruce’s ring finger is branded with a string of strange symbols. He has ran them through every existing database on the planet. Nothing matches.

 

When he was born, the mark was very faint. People say this means his soulmate has yet to be born. His father comforts him with the notion that not all are so lucky to witness the birth of their special person.

 

Young Bruce nods, not fully understanding, but like all kids his age, he eagerly awaits the day he could finally read the name on his finger.

 

When he turns four, the brand clarifies. Its colour the purest of sapphire blues; his mother says it is that of the richest autumn sky. The strange thing is, the brand of blue symbols looks not like any kind of alphabet or logogram, but rather some mysterious patterned decoration. Not even the learned Alfred can decipher just which language this is from. Bruce lowers his head in disappointment, accepting the silver ring from his mother to cover up the confusing string of symbols.

 

In his early twenties he traverses almost the entire world, but no matter how desolate or well-hidden the people he visits, none uses the symbols branded onto his hand. Slowly, he learns to cease all expectations, though occasionally when looking up the sky he would think of the same blue of his soul mark and wonder if one day, such a piece of the sky will belong to only him.

 

The first time he puts on the cowl he removes the silver ring. The soul mark is still the same shade of unforgettable sky blue. He stares at it for a moment, then pulls on his gloves, enveloping that hopeful colour in fathomless black.

 

The newly-forged Batman is unable to prevail in the face of evil like the heroes of fairy tales. He falls from the building covered in burns, landing with a painful grunt in an abandoned alleyway entrenched with grime and rats. An icy sleet smothers the flames on his cape, but not before his gloves were destroyed. The young Dark Knight shrivels in pain amongst the garbage, the remnants of Scarecrow’s fear toxin corroding his senses. His left hand clutches into a grotesque shape. In his blurry vision, the blood-stained brand is no longer the vivid sky-blue, but rather a hellish black.

 

He flips to his back, looking up at the sliver of the dank Gotham sky framed by two shambling buildings; the city’s nights are sullen and putrid, the freezing rain drowning out the last hope, leaving only bleakness.

 

_What are you still hoping for, Bruce?_

 

_When your soul has been eroded by darkness and fear, who would still be your soulmate, but the demon himself?_

* * *

 

Every gossip monger knows that the Prince of Gotham has yet to find his soulmate, and all are curious: just whose name is beneath the silver ring of the playboy billionaire? Many a paparazzi have tried to figure out some kind of hint from the series of beautiful partners Bruce Wayne dated, but there is no pattern. The Prince of Gotham has no specific type.

 

“I think I am about to ask a question that everyone is curious about, Mr. Wayne.” The young reporter from Metropolis poises his recorder, the silver ring on his own finger a stabbing mockery. Bruce turns his eyes from the glare that glanced off from that damned metal band.

 

“This is of topmost secrecy, Mr. Kent,” Bruce melts into a practiced smile, masking the emptiness in his heart with a string of lies. “However, if you will let me see yours, I will consider granting you this exclusive piece of gossip.”

 

To his satisfaction, the reporter flusters red at the implications. Bruce’s playful smile widens into glee as the reporter stammers to change the subject.

 

Behind the facade, bitterness brews.

 

Of course he knows that Clark will never remove his ring, for there is no mark, no brand of any kind.

* * *

 

It is a quiet afternoon when the Justice League returned Solomon Grundy to jail. All the members are feeling the leftover adrenaline pumping through their veins, and the atmosphere is light.

 

Superheroes gossip too when bored.

 

Batman has no idea how the conversation steered in the direction of soulmates, those nosy idiots. To his surprise and in spite of himself, he hears how Cyborg is the only one among them who claims to have found his soulmate, despite having lost his entire left arm along with the mark.

 

The Amazonian princess explains openly about the faint scar on her own finger, only a slight pang of sadness along her determined jaw.

 

The direction of the topic swerves towards Superman. Green Lantern slips close to his left hand and yelps: “You don’t have a ring Supes? You don’t have a mark?”

 

The alien smiles shyly, unclasping his clenched hands. His ring finger is smooth, scarless and brandless: nameless and unclaimed.

 

Bruce isn’t surprised. He has known this since the first day they have met. After confirming that his own mark is not of Earth, he has entertained the notion of aliens. But Superman’s ringless hand dispels all desire to learn more. The Kryptonian’s finger is markless like the rest of him - he of course isn’t Bruce’s soulmate; he will not ever belong to anyone.

 

He leaves before they turn their incessant attention to him. The cowl hides his face, but not the disappointment within.

 

How foolish for him to imagine, to _dare delude himself_ , that this blinding god could one day belong to him; that those eyes blue as the untainted sky would one day focus only on him.

* * *

 The fight with Doomsday is devastating. Back at the watchtower, most members retreat directly into their quarters for well-deserved recuperation. Yet Bruce still has a job to do in Gotham. As he drags his worn body towards the teleporter, he turns a corner and almost collides with Superman.

 

As usual, the alien seemed to not understand the concept of dodging attacks and took them head on, leaving both himself and his uniform in tatters. The “S” has been torn away, exposing much of the skin on his chest.

 

Bruce’s brows knit together, his gaze about to avert from the fine lines of rippling muscle and marbled skin, a triggering reminder of his own dark want.

 

Something on Superman’s chest pulls him back.

 

The black-blue mark is unmistakable on that chiselled chest. The colour and script are identical to that of his left ring finger - it is Bruce’s colour, written with Bruce’s name - over Superman’s heart.

 

The normally collected Dark Knight finds himself at the bottom of a preposterous awakening.

 

Superman continues to stare at him, unblinkingly with those clear blue eyes. His uncertain gaze slowly shifts to guarded hope as he takes in Bruce’s unmistakable shock.

 

“Tell me it’s you… _please_ ….” His voice shakes until it is almost indiscernible, as if Bruce’s answer will become his final judgement, his personal Doomsday.

 

The world’s greatest detective finds his mind blank, his breathing difficult. What breaths he could draw burn his lungs as both desire and something deeper devastate through the remnants of any logical thinking.

  
He removes his left glove, hands shaking so badly he has difficulty grasping the leather.

 

The script. The colour. Everything matches.

 

Superman’s Kryptonian name is on his finger, just as his name is over Superman’s heart.

 

The Man of Steel lets out his breath , nearly collapsing as he kneels before Bruce on his knees. A god-like being in his brilliance, he grabs Bruce’s left hand and kisses it, over and over, in an undeniably human tenderness.

 

“I knew it is you… it _had_ to be you…”

 

Bruce tenses, yanking Superman up by his hair. Before the latter could speak, he slams their lips together. The invulnerable alien whimpers, and presses Bruce into an embrace, bruising him with his massive strength. Their kiss deepens. Their two souls merge into an identical frequency resonating within their chests, a colossal pledge that binds them together; from now until forever, nothing can separate them. Nothing will.

 

The kiss ends.

 

“No mark, _hm_?” Despite the lack of breath, and despite the flush colouring his cheeks, the Dark Knight’s voice is still threatening with its dangerous growl.

 

The menacing accusation has no impact on Superman’s innocent smile. He grabs the hand marked with his name and places it over his beating heart. “You never told me your real name, I suppose we are even?” He plugs the torrent of curses and complaints with another suffocating kiss.

 

The proximity of Superman’s eyes dazes Bruce, as if looking into the sky that he has enamoured of for so long - that untainted, pure sky.

 

Starting now, this piece of that sky belongs eternally to him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A translation note: the original author never specified the reporter from Metropolis as Clark Kent. Their original usage was, literally, "little reporter," which in Chinese would be a flirtatious/teasing nickname. But this same connotation doesn't carry through to English, so I took liberties here and used "Mr. Kent" instead. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Hope you liked this author's fic as much as I did. <3

**Author's Note:**

> This is a translation of Inori's original work: [灵魂伴侣系列](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4159710) . Please leave them a kudos if you like this :3


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